


Caught In the Rain

by InkNote



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Australia, Hitchhiking, M/M, because why not, cross country Australia, possibly real places
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1452100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkNote/pseuds/InkNote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rain is a funny thing; it can bring life and death, but it never truly takes a side. It falls where it wants, regardless of who's seeing who, what happened that one weekend at that one party with that one guy who drank one drink too many. Rain never leaves you with a bag full of new clothes and time to kill or a hole in your heart that he used to fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rain, Rain

**Author's Note:**

> A quick drabble that is likely to turn into something long...

The field of grass stretched on forever, each delicate strand swaying and rippling in the soft wind, a dull, green ocean. The air was chilly, the sky grey and heavy with the promise of rain, forcing even the larger kangaroos to search for shelter. The first drops of rain lazily dripped from their heavenly home and wet the ground in a spectacular explosion of death. Slowly, more followed the first, then faster and faster until it fell so thick, that he couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead of him.

 

It soaked his week-old clothes until even his bones felt the damp, chilly drops seeping into his very being. He stood, silently allowing himself to become immersed in the rain, permitting it to wash his fears away. The rain washed away tears, as if to comfort him, cleansing his freckled face from the hurt and humiliation of a regrettable past. Shifting his rucksack, he turned to catch one last glimpse of his hometown, before turning to leave it behind him forever. In that one moment, he turned his back on his old life, fully prepared to walk into his future with a new identity, history and resolve. And so he walked, cropped brown hair plastered to his face, old clothes clinging to his very being even as the first bolt of lightning struck the earth.

 

Time passed slowly as he wandered the known world, following the highways and catching rides with strangers, trying to find a place to go, a place where he could truly feel comfortable. The meagre funds in his bank account dried up, forcing him to find temporary work at any roadside restaurant or motel that needed the help, taking whatever cash and food that he could find. He never thought about much in those times; he focused solely on cleaning that one table, making that one bed, fixing that one customer that one drink that he could never get quite right. Nothing pervaded those moments. He existed, and his work existed, and that was all that mattered.

 

He acquired a second outfit on the sixth month after he left. Still having no particular goal in mind, he thumbed his way around eastern Australia, trying to find that one place that demanded his attention. This ride began like the first; waiting in the rain, soaked to the bone, hoping that someone, anyone, would be kind enough to let him ride in the relative safety and comfort of a car. The tawny stranger was like any other, shocked at the state of his clothing, and horrified at the gauntness that stalked him wherever he went. The car was unlocked, he was beckoned in and enquiries ensued.

 

“Who are you?”

 

“Where do you come from?”

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“What _is_ the _fucking_ deal with your clothes, man?”

 

Shocked, Marco stared at the stranger. No one had ever inquired about his clothes before; he had been content to merely let them assume that he was just some broke tourist, taking the Australian hitchhiking challenge with minimal supplies as a kind of test to prove his mettle. But this guy, well, this guy was different, in every way, shape and form. He could see through the bullshit excuse of a façade that Marco had carefully constructed in order to protect the sensitive underbelly of his person. No one, not even his pathetic excuse for a family, had even bothered to try.

 

Marco was silent, unable to answer a single one of the stranger’s questions, shocked at the direct nature of his investigation. Mouth gaping open like that of a carp, Marco fished for words, trying to find the right combination of terms that could protect himself and appease this over-curious man.

 

“I’m a traveller; travellers get dirty and forgetful.” Marco chuckled quietly to try and convince the inquisitive stranger.

 

“Mate, I’ve seen travellers, and I’ve seen travellers, and you ain’t no traveller. If anything, I would say that you’re fucking migrating.”

 

Marco was silent, unnerved that this man, whom he had barely known for an hour or two dismissed the excuse that had satisfied his other hosts.

 

“W-well… Perhaps travelling isn’t the best word for it–“

 

“Damn straight. That word don’t cover what you’re doin’ at all. You look like shit; even the stupidest hitchhikers have a second pair of clothes and a decent fucking pack. None of this smaller-than-a-school-bag piece of crap.”

 

The stranger aggressively turned off the highway at an exit they nearly past. Marco thought nothing of it; it mattered not where he went. As long as he was moving, nothing else was even remotely important.

 

The highways gave way to urban streets as they wove their way deeper and deeper into the large town just hours away from Sydney. The stranger said nothing until he darted recklessly into the underground car park for the largest mall in the area, finding a spot. He parked awkwardly and commanded Marco to exit the car. The shock must have showed on his face as the stranger smiled, satisfied at having scared his timid passenger.

 

He stood, locked the car and extended his hand over the wet roof of his faithful vehicle, oblivious to the wetness that crept through the sleeves of his thin hoodie.

 

“I’m Jean, by the way.”

 

They shook and Jean began leading the way through the labyrinthine parking lot to find the entrance to the mall.

 

“Now, the Square ain’t the best place for clothes, but it sure as hell beats those relics you’ve got. It’s cheap too, if you know where to look. Now, given the state of your…uh,” Jean paused to look Marco up and down, “Well, given the state of you, I’m going to assume that you’re broke as fuck. SO, being the loving, kind-hearted person that I am (and have always been), I am going to buy you some new fucking clothes.”

 

Jean looked over expectantly over at Marco, a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he searched for the approval of his strangely secretive acquaintance. Marco had hunched over slightly, already feeling the weight of guilt settle over his shoulders as he burdened his friend. He began to open his mouth, in order to protest that he didn’t want to inconvenience Jean or put him out of pocket, when Jean cut him off,

 

“Dude, don’t even think about saying no. I actually had to be in Sydney about forty-five minutes ago, so I sure as hell ain’t gonna let this time go to waste. I can afford to lose a hundred and fifty bucks to help a guy, and honestly, you are doing me a favour by giving me an excuse to avoid the city today. Seriously, don’t sweat it.”

 

Marco simply sighed and allowed Jean to lead him around the shops, trying on various articles of clothing until Jean found something he approved of. The time flew, and soon enough, it was time for Jean to leave, being unable to avoid his appointment any longer. Marco hefted his new backpack, filled to bursting with new clothes, his old clothes having been tossed vehemently in the bin by Jean, who, disgusted, exclaimed that ‘these shitty old rags’ had served their purpose, and now, therefore, must die.

 

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as they stood outside the large electronics shop adjacent to the escalators that would lead Jean back to his car, and away from Marco. He tilted his head forward, allowing his ragged locks to fall haphazardly into his eyes, unwilling to farewell the kind stranger. Jean stepped forward and shook Marco’s hand, pulling him into a brief hug before smiling and sauntering back to his car, waving over his shoulder.

 

“Good luck with your _travelling_ , mate. Call me when you’re on this side of town again, alright?”

 

He turned away from Marco for the last time, even as Marco timidly replied, just out of earshot,

 

“Of course I will, you idiot.”


	2. Of Trains and Confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, here's another chapter! This may become a regular thing... (shrugs)

And so, Marco found himself, on a perfectly fine Thursday night, stranded in a small, local shopping centre with a backpack full of clothes with absolutely nowhere to be. He stood for a few minutes in front of the escalator, silently questioning the actions of the stranger. Why would Jean be so generous to someone who practically screams ‘emotional baggage’? What could have possibly be going through his head to blow off a pre-arranged engagement, takes hours out of his time and spend his hard earned money on clothes for a total stranger?

He drifted outside to the restaurant courtyard just for something to do, rather than standing outside an electronics shop like a stunned mullet. Marco pulled the black winter coat closer to his body as the evil chill of the rough Australian winter ruffled his hair and sent other shoppers seeking cover. The thought struck him like a lightning bolt; Marco had nowhere to stay. He was miles away from the nearest highway and even further from any sort of cheap motel to repel the icy claws of the night. The thought that he might have to walk through the night in order to get anywhere even remotely safe to sleep at terrified him.

Marco looked up from his ruminations. He had walked up a small set of grassy, outdoor stairs and past a large movie theatre to find himself halfway across a bridge that apparently connected the courtyard to some local train station. Relief flooded through his veins as he decided to buy a ticket and just ride the train all night and not worry about the cold. It didn’t even matter where he ended up; as long as he was moving, that was all that mattered.

He requested a ticket to the city, figuring that it would just loop around and around, until he finally decided to exit. The clerks' muffled voice told Marco the price and, once paid, shot a ticket out of a small, whirring machine for him to collect through a small opening at the bottom of the glass window. He wandered down the long, slippery ramp to the platform, shivering in the cold and the wet as he waited for his train to arrive.

Warming his hands and nose with his breath, Marco felt a soft buzz emanating from the back pocket of his jeans. Wincing at the cold of the plastic, he plucked his phone out to see what it was flipping out about. The small computer vibrated, desperately trying to inform him that he was getting a call from none other than Jean. The train pulled into the station just as Marco answered the phone, stepping into the warm carriage and allowing himself to defrost.

“Hullo?”

“Hi, yeah, um… it’s Jean.”

“Mmhmm,” Marco hummed. Of course he knew who it was, the phone told him; the stupid thing would do anything to please it's master.

“Where are you?”

A hot pulse rippled through his body, making his heart pound against his ribcage, and animal begging for freedom.

“I’m on the train. Why?”

“On a train where?”

“Away from wherever the hell you left me stranded.”

Jean chuckled softly on the other end of the phone,

“Heh, I thought that might be the case. Seriously though, where are you going?”

“I thought that I might hit the city, go clubbing and see if I can win me a few drinks, because I can't afford such things.”

Marco shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Jean remained silent, the phone speaker spewing nothing but white noise from the car. The train driver announced the location of the next stop and Jean violently exclaimed,

“Get off at this stop!”

“Why?”

“No questions, just get off!”

Marco sprung from his seat and rushed up the few stairs and out of the carriage, just as the train doors hissed shut behind him. Panting slightly from excitement and surprise, he walked the length of the platform to the exit gates, checking for guards before jumping them.

“So why did I have to leave my nice, comfortable for the cold of the first station that I happened to arrive at, only to find that I still have nowhere to stay for the night?”

“I’ll explain in a minute. Now look to your right, you should see a staircase that leads to the road. Walk up that staircase and look for my car, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Jean hung up, leaving Marco staring incredulously at his phone, stunned into inaction for the second time that day. Shaking the daze slightly, he looked to his right and, sure enough, there was a staircase. He walked across the zebra crossing, holding up the buses as he made his way to the stairs, watching them as they drove to pick up their passengers. Marco ascended the stairs, his eyes glued to the old, dirty things covered in black gum and graffiti.

He reached the top and was greeted by the sight of Jeans' faithful car pulling into the pickup/drop off bay and flashing its’ lights at him. Hurrying a little, Marco reached the car as Jean popped the locks, allowing the hitchhiker to dump his bag in the backseat before clambering into the passenger side, slamming the door behind him.

Marco looked over at Jean, a single elegant eyebrow lifted, a silent enquiry. Jean released his iron grip on the steering wheel, killed the engine and turned his whole body to the left, one leg curled on the seat underneath him, the other resting on the handbrake. He rested his head on his knee and finally raised his eyes to meet Marco’s. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but thought better of it, his eyes shifting to focus on the radio, the floor, the backseat; anything to avoid the brown orbs searching for any kind of explanation.

Finally, he gathered his courage and said,

“Long time, no see huh?”

 _Yeah, no shit_. Marco thought to himself, while humming in agreement.

“I know this is kinda weird of me to say, but I know a guy who knows a guy that can get you a job. Just let him know what you want to do and he can make it happen.”

“That’s nice Jean, but why does that involve me jumping off my train to get back into your car after farewelling you just over half and hour ago, while you’re meant halfway to the city by now?”

Marco never used to be this blunt, but he was tired, confused and just wanted to sleep. It had been a very long and exhausting day, after all.

“Shit, man, you don’t think I know that? I’m trying to be nice here,” Jean ran his hands through his already tousled hair and took a shaky breath, “I’m offering you a job and a place to stay while you find your feet in the big city. Do you want it or not?”

Jean looked expectantly at Marco, waiting for his reaction. Marco sat there stunned once again. This man was becoming remarkably and suspiciously good at removing Marco’s ability to form coherent sentences as his mouth ran off half-formed words, unable to organise his thoughts. The shock left his face a burning red, embarrassed at his awkward reply. Jean merely laughed,

“I’m going to take that as a yes. Strap yourself in mate, we’re going for a ride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends this chapter two,  
> of people and places,  
> where two boys do stare,  
> at each others' faces.
> 
> ~Ink~


	3. Of Cars and Apartments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey, welcome to the next instalment!

The lights of the freeway raced past in a blur, the sounds of the car filling the awkward silence that had fallen between them. Marco found his eyes drooping shut, the entirety of the days events finally catching up with him. He allowed his head to rest on the window as his mind slowly wound down, the warmth of the car and the comfort of the seat lulling him into a gentle doze. Every now and again, he would become aware of his mouth falling open, only to shut it and try to coax some moisture back to its’ rightful place on his tongue.

 

The sound of Jeans’ horn violently ripped him out of his quiet sleep, the hair on the nape his neck standing up as the shock rippled through his body. Rubbing his head from where it had bumped against the window in surprise, Marco looked over at Jean. He had his eyes fixed solidly on the road, only to look sheepishly in Marco’s direction before explaining,

 

“He wouldn’t let me merge, the fucker.”

 

Marco gave up all hope of returning to sleep in the car and turned his attention to the road ahead, as he contemplated Jeans’ motive, for what seemed the millionth time that day. Jean pulled him once again out of his reverie as he told Marco that they had nearly reached the city.

 

“We’re nearly there. It’s about ten minutes from here to my apartment, so put your shoes back on and get ready to leave.”

 

Marco did as he was told, pulling his new, but now damp, converse back onto his feet and checking that he did still indeed have his wallet and phone, and that his backpack was still in the backseat. Satisfied, that he would be able to find everything when he had to exit the car, Marco fell back again into his thoughts, taking refuge there while he considered his options. He could take the job that Jean offered him, reasoning that it would be nice to have a semi-permanent job for a while. However, if he ever wanted or needed to leave, he would now have to deal with Jean and his antics. Perhaps he could convince Jean that he was only going to stay for a few weeks before leaving; he could bullshit some excuse about not wanting to get bogged down with attachments, that his transitory lifestyle called to him or something. Either way, he couldn’t stay long, that much he knew.

 

A bump in the otherwise smooth trip signalled their arrival to the parking lot reserved for residents of the large, fancy apartment building. Marco snuck a glance at Jean, watching his dusty brown eyes dart around the lot, looking for a spot, his brows furrowed in concentration. Finally, he found one, careful manoeuvring the heavy machine smoothly in, reversing to straighten it. He killed the engine with a quick turn of the key and opened the door to exit the car. Marco followed suit, opening the backdoor to retrieve his bag. He shut the door and Jean locked it, the indicators illuminating the lot with a soft orange glow to show that the car had secured itself, obediently waiting for the time of its’ masters’ return.

 

Turning from the car, Marco rushed to catch up to Jean, who had started walking without him,

 

“Now, since _you_ have managed to convince _me_ to let you stay at my house for a while, I guess you need to know some things about how I run the place. No shoes in the apartment except the wet area and your closet, Japanese style. My room is off limits, except by invitation and _no girls_. If you decide that you have to do the do, then you can find somewhere else. “

 

Marco chuckled lightly; Jean had nothing to worry about as far as Marco’s love life was concerned. Hitchhiking across the country for a living didn’t tend to attract many potential partners after all.

 

They entered the elevator and Jean pressed the button for the fourteenth floor, and the traditional awkward silence ensued as the speakers mumbled some sort of smooth jazz. Finally, after what seemed like ages, the elevator slowly came to a halt, the doors opening with a slight hiss.

 

Marco indicated that Jean should lead the way, and followed him down the long hall to room 104. The key was inserted into the door, and with a heavy sounding click, it swung open, revealing the apartment. A multitude of shoes littered the small floor-boarded area, some with their heels pressed closely to the small step up into the apartment, others left lying haphazardly on their sides.

 

“This is evidently the wet area. Obviously, you take your shoes off here. Just don’t leave ‘em where the door can reach ‘em.”

 

Following Jean deeper into the apartment after removing his shoes, Marco examined the interior of what was going to be his home. The door opened up into a kind of dining area with low table, cushions scattered around and under it. Adjacent to that was the kitchen, where an expensive looking stove and oven made their homes. Take out boxes and instant meal packets littered the counter and dirty dishes were overflowing from the sink, despite the evident presence of the dishwasher. A large flat screen TV hung from the wall, facing a large, two-seater leather lounge, complete with footrests. A pair of stools sat on either side of the lounge, acting as coffee tables as game discs and old glasses spilled off them onto the ground. Three doors were set into the wall directly opposite the front door; the only one that was open was a bathroom that doubled as a laundry, the other two must be bedrooms. All in all, the place was a mess.

 

“Now, the door on the left of the bathroom is mine. You do not go in there. The door on the right was the guest bedroom, but now, it’s yours. That one, you can go into.”

 

Jean smiled as he dumped his keys on the table, along with his wallet and phone.

 

“Make yourself at home,” Jean told Marco as he flung himself onto the lounge, grabbing an Xbox controller and booting the console.

 

Marco wandered through the apartment to what was going to be his bedroom for the foreseeable future, careful not to step on anything along the way; old clothes and miscellaneous university materials invaded every spare inch of floor available leaving a path, where Jean walks from his room or the bathroom to the kitchen. Unfortunately, this ‘path’, if it could be called that, did not extend to Marco’s room. Nearly tripping a half dozen times on the way, Marco finally reached the door, and entered the room.

 

It was plain, as any guest bedroom tends to be; a double bed on the left, closet on the right and a small balcony at the far side of the room. Black block out curtains adorned either side of the glass door and a pot plant sat dead on the small bedside table, neglected. Marco placed his bag on the floor near the closet and ventured out onto the balcony. It offered an outstanding view of the city as it overlooked Circular Quay; the city was up in lights at this time of the night and it was absolutely stunning,

 

“What’cha lookin’ at?”

 

Marco jumped as Jean spoke. He had snuck onto the balcony from his room, apparently connected to both.

 

“Nothing much. The city is nice from here. You can look down on the hustle and bustle of the nightlife without having to be caught up in it all.”

 

“Not a partygoer huh?”

 

“Hell no,” Marco pulled a face, “One bad experience is all you need to turn you away from the dark side forever.”

 

“Oh really?”

 

Marco nodded his head in affirmation.

 

“Now that’s a story I would like to hear.”

 

“Ha, not tonight, I don’t think. I’m too tired to cope with the embarrassment.”

 

Jean chuckled and they lapsed into a comfortable silence, finally allowing the awkwardness to be forgotten. Marco yawned widely, wiping tears of tiredness from the corners of his eyes as they watered at the brightness of the city lights.

 

“Well, you look tired, so I’m going to let you sleep. I’ll be on the lounge ‘til ‘bout twoish if you need me. Feel free to have a shower; you can use my soaps and whatever if you need ‘em.”

 

He clapped Marco gently on the back and retreated to the lounge room, sliding the glass door shut behind him, leaving Marco to his thoughts. He decided that a shower would be the best course of action; he was freezing after his little stint in the rain earlier. He re-entered his room, shutting the sliding door behind him. Looking around, a little lost, he realised that he didn't have a change of pajamas or a towel.

 

Marco opened the door to the lounge room and quickly located Jean on the lounge, his game loading on the TV, suffusing the room with a soft, blue glow.

 

“Jean?”

 

Jean remained focussed on the game, despite the fact that nothing was happening, large headphones adorning his head.

 

“Jean?”

 

Still no response. Deciding to cut his losses, Marco picked his way through the battleground of a floor to the lounge and tapped Jean on the shoulder, who promptly jumped about a mile into the air.

 

“FUCK MARCO!”

 

Marco descended into peels of laughter, the sugar-high of sleep deprivation making everything about a million times funnier that what it should have been.

 

“HA, you should have seen you’re face!”

 

“Don’t do that, Jesus, Marco, seriously,” A smile tugged at Jean’s face as he tried to defend his manly pride, and soon was rolling around on the lounge, gasping for breath alongside Marco.

 

The laughter died down a little as they recovered, when a devious smirk found a home on Jean’s lips. Marco’s face fell as he watched Jean reach out a hand and grab his still-damp hoodie and yank him onto the lounge. Thus, Marco found himself pinned under Jean on the lounge, laughter bubbling forcefully out of his mouth as his sides were attacked by Jean’s nimble fingers. Just as panic was beginning to set in from suffocation, Marco manage to break free, rolling Jean off him onto the floor and running to the relative safety of the kitchen. Jean lay where he fell, possessed by a fit of laughter so strong, only gasps and a few odd squeaks escaping his mouth as he tried to recuperate.

 

Eventually they calmed down, smiling sheepishly at each other from across the apartment.

 

“Now what did ya wanna ask me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three  
> indeed to me  
> tends to be  
> the hardest one to write.


	4. Of Cafes and Cleaning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome. New chapter. Woo.

Marco awoke the next day disoriented. Sleep released him slowly from its sandy clutches as he began to gradually regain consciousness. He had showered the night before, basking in the calm that the steaming hot water brought before crawling into bed, clad in a pair of Jean’s old pyjamas. He had fallen asleep to the sound of rain softly hitting the concrete balcony, smelling the sweet scent of laundry detergent and something slightly musky; odd, but not unpleasant. He didn’t have a single dream.

 

He lay still for a while, waging a mental war with his conscience, trying to convince himself to leave the safety of the warm, fluffy doona for the cold of the outside room. Marco glanced over at the small digital clock that sat on his bedside table. 10:23, it read, the numbers casting a sickly green glow around the room as the block-out curtains prevented any natural light from bursting in and burning his eyes.

 

Deciding that he had had enough sleep for one day, Marco forced himself out of bed and began rummaging through his bag, looking for something to wear that was not too wrinkly. Finally selecting a pair of blue jeans and a casual black button down top, Marco dressed himself and padded barefoot out into the disaster zone of the living room to see if Jean was awake yet. A quick scan of the room revealed everything but his rather elusive host. Shrugging, Marco picked his way through the rubbish on the floor to the kitchen to see if there was anything worth eating. He looked through every single cupboard and found nothing but a few empty cereal boxes and some loaves of mouldy bread. The fridge proved no better; a case of beer, an old-looking block of unopened cheese and some milk sporting a used-by date of around four weeks ago.

 

The sound of Jeans’ door opening informed Marco of his presence. His hair was mussed from sleep and he rubbed the remaining sleep out of his eyes as he walked blind through the messy room, seeming to know the location of every single piece of crap on the floor; it must have been there a while for him to be able to walk unseeing through that space. A large yawn racked his figure as Jean stretched and tried to figure out what Marco was doing looking through his graveyard of a kitchen.

 

“If you’re looking for anything that even remotely resembles food, you’ll have to search elsewhere.”

 

“Evidently. Why haven’t you been shopping?”

 

“What for? I just eat out most of the time.”

 

Marco raised an eyebrow, gesturing at the countless miscellaneous take out containers and pizza boxes littering the kitchen counter, “No shit.”

 

Jean simply shrugged and turned to return to his room, looking over his shoulder at Marco before saying,

 

“Well, I’m going to get dressed and we can go somewhere for breakfast. I’ll be ready in five.”

 

The door slammed shut behind him and Marco was left, alone in the nuclear wasteland.

 

Soon enough, however, Jean returned and gestured for Marco to follow him, picking up his keys and wallet from the table where he left them the night before. They put their shoes on and left the apartment, walking in a comfortable silence all the way to some convenient café five minutes down the road. They ordered their food and Jean refused to let Marco pay even for his own half. Jean led the way to a small, two-person booth in the deepest corner of the café were they sat and chatted about trivial things until their food arrived.

 

“So, this guy I was telling you about…”

 

“Mm, “ Marco hummed in response.

 

“His name’s Eren Jaeger and he’s a total fuckwit.”

 

“That’s nice, Jean.”

 

“As much as I hate that guy, though, he knows what he’s doing in terms of employment. I took the liberty of setting up a meeting with him this morning, in this here café. _And_ he should be arriving juuuust… aboooout… now.”

 

He looked triumphantly over at the entrance of the café and waved at the man standing in the door. He was average in height and had short, messy brown hair that seemed to have a mind of its’ own. He was dressed fairly casually, wearing a nice pair of black slacks with a white dress shirt, the top three buttons left undone and half untucked. In short, he looked like he slept in and ran a few kilometres to get to their meeting on time.

 

Eren ordered a drink and walked over to their table, pulling up a chair as he greeted Jean,

 

“Kirschtein.”

 

“Jaeger,” Jean responded, looking slightly miffed about having to be in the same room as the brunette.

 

“This the friend you called about? The one that was so important that you called at one in the morning to set up a meeting early the next day?” Eren practically growled.

 

“Yup. Jaeger, Bodt. Bodt, Jaeger.”

 

His job done, Jean sat back in his chair and became intently focussed on his coffee. Marco reached out a hand to Eren, introducing himself by his first name.

 

“Well then, Marco, horse face,” Jean snorted. Eren glared at him,”Told me that you needed a semi-permanent job that’s within walking or bus distance from his apartment, where you are apparently staying. So, I took the liberty of bringing along some places that have an opening…”

 

Jean found himself bored out of his wits as his two companions talked shop; he played games on his phone, surfed the net for a while and began to play with the spoon in his coffee mug. Five minutes had past when Marco absent-mindedly confiscated the spoon from him to stop the horrible clanging and screeching noises that had been emanating from the cup. Out of ideas, Jean placed his arms on the table, stretching his legs out under it, ever so slightly resting one against Marco’s. To tired to care, he put his head in his arms and willed the boring-ass conversation to be over as soon as possible.

 

An hour later and Eren had everything he needed to set Marco up with the much-needed job and left with a promise to email all the details. Marco stood, as Eren did, shaking his hand and waving him off with words of gratitude spilling from his lips. The sudden movement woke Jean from his doze prompting him to will himself awake as Marco sat back down. Jean looked blearily at Marco from where his head still lay in his arms on the table and inquired,

 

“How did it go?”

 

“Great, actually. Eren has a few things to send me and he’s going to make a few calls to see if anyone will take me on. He said we won’t know anything for a few weeks though, so it looks like you’re stuck with me for a little longer than we expected.”

 

He sweated slightly as he said those words, worried that Jean would be angry or frustrated that he wouldn’t have his apartment back to himself as soon as Marco had originally promised. When he raised his eyes from the table to look at Jean, who was stretching the kinks out of his back, he saw not frustration, but devious excitement.

 

“Well then, since you’re broke and whatever, we are going to have to discuss a method for you to pay me some rent,” A smirk graced Jean’s face as Marco saw the cogs moving in his brain.

 

“And just what exactly do you mean by that?”

 

“Well, the apartment is pretty dirty.”

 

“Yes…”

 

“And the fridge is kind of empty.”

 

“I’m not sure I like where this is going, Jean,” Marco warned.

 

“All I’m saying is that if we are going to live together for the foreseeable future, you are going to have to pull your weight around the house.” Jean replied in mock-seriousness.

 

Marco sighed, resigned to his fate; he was going to have to clean the damn place at some point anyway.

 

“Fine, but guess who’s holding the garbage bag?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marco has to stay  
> In Jeans' house, he must clean it,  
> Because he is broke.


	5. Of Crowds and Cleaning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us embark together on a journey...

The meeting having gone well, Jean led Marco out of the small coffee shop in an attempt to take him on a tour around the block. The minute they stepped out of the relative safety of the coffee shop, they were bombarded by a positive stampede of people; Marco was shocked at the sheer number of office workers lined the streets as the lunchtime rush began. Jean took one look around and, having already been bumped into by about a dozen people, turned to Marco, and made a decision.

 

“I was going to show you around the ol’ homestead, however, the lunch rush is worse than usual today. SO, I have decided that we shall just go home and waste the day away at home.”

 

Jean turned to Marco, immensely satisfied with his excuse to stay at home all day. Marco smiled, avoiding the employees as they rushed off to their respective lunchtime destinations.

 

“You do know what’s waiting for you at home though, don’t you?”

 

Jean just stared at him, a puzzled look gracing his handsome features. Marco sighed at the obvious attempt to weasel his way out of doing a job that needed to be done; something that he was apparently very good at, if helping a troubled hitchhiker instead of attending a very important business conference was anything to go by…

 

“The cleaning.”

 

Spouting a bunch of nonsense about not really having to clean the place, Jean backed slowly away from Marco until he felt the cold sandstone blocks of the vintage building pressing into his back. Marco advanced and placed his hand on the wall behind Jean, smirking at the look of fear Jean gave him and taking advantage of his height by leaning slightly over him.

 

“How now, Jean. I think cleaning the apartment is a fantastic idea. That place is practically a toxic wasteland. You said it yourself; there’s no point in trying to go anywhere today, at least not until tonight and so help me God I am not going to walk through that bombshell of a living room in the dark again.”

 

Marco could almost see Jean’s ears droop as he mentally resigned himself to his fate.

 

~~~

 

A short while later found the two back in the apartment, sleeves rolled up to their elbows in an attempt to shift the months of gunk that had grown roots in the small apartment. They had only been cleaning for around half an hour and already they had filled a half dozen garbage bags between them. Marco had been perfectly content, mindlessly filling bag after bag of junk, revelling in the thoughtless task. Nothing else mattered except that that pizza box simply had to go, how the hell did that get there, and– what the hell was Jean _doing?_

 

Jean was lying face down on the carpet, ass in the air and groaning as if he’d been shot.

 

“Marcooooooooo…”

 

Jean whined.

 

Marco ignored him.

 

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh, Marcoooooooo…”

 

Jean whined.

 

Marco tied the knot on the current garbage bag.

 

“UUUUUUUUUU–“

 

“What, Jean!?”

 

“I’m bored.”

 

“Yes, I can see that.”

 

“I don’t want to clean anymore.”

 

“You’ve hardly done anything, you can’t say that yet.”

 

“But, Marco…”

 

“No buts. Look, we’re nearly done picking up all the shit in here. When we’ve finished that, we’ll take a break. Sound fair?”

 

“Fine.”

 

And so Jean grudgingly returned to his work, mumbling and grumbling under his breath the whole time as he aggressively hurled old beer cans into the empty bag, the tinny sound echoing through the room. Marco sighed and focused on reaching that one pesky chip packet from under the immovably heavy lounge, popping the footrest to make more space. His toes were beginning to ache as he stretch his arm to its full length, twiddling his fingers in an effort to at least touch the damn thing.

 

Marco froze as he felt a hand slap his butt, the harsh sound echoing around the silent apartment. He raised his head, peering over the armrest of lounge at Jean as he sauntered away into his bedroom. Jean turned and looked over at Marco, a smirk firmly plastered on his face in challenge.

 

“Payback’s a bitch mate.”

 

The door slammed behind him and all Marco could do was sit on the floor like a stunned mullet, a blush dusting his face as he tried to make sense of the situation.

 

~~~

 

An hour later and the apartment was as good as new; the rubbish on the floor was gone, carpet vacuumed, the kitchen tiles mopped, coffee table dusted, dishes gone fridge emptied, the eight garbage bags lay in the wet area, ready to be put out and still, Marco couldn’t get that nasty smirk of Jean’s out of his head. ‘Payback’s a bitch’, he said. Payback for what? Making him clean the apartment?

 

The questions circled around Marco’s head until he heard the tell-tale click of a door latch opening. Jean poked his head out of his bedroom, the lack of noise coming from the main area prompting him to ask,

 

“Is it safe yet?”

 

Marco slowly turned to face Jean, an idea springing forth from the recesses of his mind. Jean must have seen the cogs turning in his brain, his face contorting in fear as Marco advanced towards the mysterious bedroom.

 

“I don’t know, Jean. What does your room look like?”

 

Busy being afraid of the implications of that one sentence, Jean hadn’t noticed how close Marco had gotten to his room. Springing into action, Jean began to shut the door, only to have its progress halted as Marco pushed against it from the outside. Jean pushed with all his strength, his body switching to panic mode as he desperately tried to close the door in Marco’s face. Marco only smirked as he finally put some muscle behind the door and flung it open, the force of which flinging Jean backwards, making him land face first on the bed. He lay there unmoving as Marco glanced around the forbidden territory.

 

The room was spotless. There was not a single thing on the floor that was not meant to be there. The shelves had been dusted and arranged neatly, the bedside table sported nothing but an alarm clock and a book, and bed itself had been made, crinkled only from when Jean fell on it. Realising that the door wouldn’t open properly, Marco stepped around it to find a large, black garbage bag acting as a doorstop. Looking over his shoulder, Marco raised an eyebrow at Jean, who looked back at him sheepishly from where he lay curled on the bed.

 

“Just don’t go in the cupboard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cupboards the thing,  
> that'll catch the conscience of the king...


	6. Of Fear and Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you notice any mistakes or inconsistencies!

The rest of the day passed in relative peace; Jean and Marco finished cleaning the bathroom and swept the balcony, making sure that even the corners were cleaned and dusted. The sun was just beginning to set when a loud growl escaped the confined of Jeans stomach, abruptly declaring that it was time for dinner. Jean looked just as shocked as Marco as the sound ripped through the comfortable working silence. Marco laughed as Jean blushed and rubbed his neck awkwardly in embarrassment.

 

“I think it may be time to get something for dinner.”

 

Quickly deciding which pizzas to order (they deserved it, goddamnit!), Marco gathered his things to have a shower while Jean called the restaurant for a delivery. Marvelling at how the warm water always managed to just melt the tension away, Marco allowed his mind to wander and was surprised when he found no morbid thoughts of tomorrow, but instead, a kind of peaceful calm. Having been a little apprehensive about moving in with the kind stranger at first, Marco found himself quite comfortable in Jean’s presence. It was as if they had been mates in high school who hadn’t seen each other in years, and were just getting used to each another again.

 

A sharp knock on the door and a vicious shout from Jean jolted him out of his thoughts and informed him that the pizza had arrived and that he should get his ‘scrawny ass out of the fuckin’ shower if he wanted anything other than crusts’.  Marco hurriedly towelled himself dry and threw on the pyjamas that Jean leant him before bursting out the door in an attempt to ensure that he did in fact get some actual pizza.

 

It was lucky that he came out when he did as Jean had already, in the short interval of about two minutes, devoured at least three slices and was working on his fourth, not even bothering with plates. Marco rushed across the lounge and snatched the box aggressively away from Jean just as he grabbed the fifth, and hopefully his final piece, of the family sized meat lover’s pizza. Jean attempted to growl some insult at Marco, but succeeded only in making himself choke while Marco sat on the right side of the lounge, popped the footrest, that had been ever so troublesome before, and promptly laughed his ass off.

 

Finally regaining the complete use of his oesophagus, Jean slunk over to the lounge, his ears tinged in pink, flopped down and curled into a loose version of the foetal position with his back to Marco. Chuckling, Marco leant over and rested his chin on Jean’s shoulder, smiling and poking at his leg with the corner of the pizza box.

 

“Are you mad at me?”

 

 

A nod.

 

“For laughing at you while you coughed up your lungs?”

 

Another nod.

 

“Would you like another slice of pizza?”

 

Jean shifted his head to lean on Marco’s.

 

A nod.

 

“Shall I turn on the Xbox so you can choose a movie?”

 

 

Marco chuckled and stood up to turn the TV on and collect the remote, taking the box of pizza with him after handing Jean one last slice.

 

Finally, they found themselves replete, contentedly lying on the lounge, bellies full watching the first season of BBC’s Sherlock (because it was simply a travesty that Marco had not watched it). Jean had given up staying on his side and had taken to leaning on Marco, using him as a pillow as he swung his legs over the armrest and sighed in content.

 

The end of the second episode saw them half asleep, trying to force themselves awake so that they could return to their rooms before succumbing to the tempting darkness. Jean had somehow shifted so that his head was lying on Marco’s lap, and when Marco tried to get up, he simply tensed, preventing Marco from rising to make an elegant exit. Deciding that there was no way Jean was going to drag himself to his own bed, Marco gave up any attempt to leave, satisfied with simply reclining on the lounge, absentmindedly running his fingers through Jeans hair. This earned him a contented sigh as Jean slipped further into the recesses of sleep, left arm stretched out, his hand resting on Marco’s knee.

 

And so they slept. Marco had a vague recollection of Jean rising halfway through the night, jostling the lounge slightly as he rose, returning a short while later with the doona, crawling underneath it and spreading a corner over Marco’s bare feet. He fidgeted for a short time, finding that one position that would deliver him to the dream world. Marco smiled, feeling safe and stable for the first time in his life.

 

He slipped into sleep, allowing his subconscious to take control. He was standing once again in the grass field of his hometown. It looked just like it had before, calm, the promise of rain in the air. The roos looked nervously at the sky, as though it held some great, unspeakable terror. As one, they turned and fled, moving in every direction away from Marco. The sky opened. Rain pounded against his skin, stinging his emaciated form as something prompted him to turn around. He saw himself. Bright and healthy, but with a look on his face that could make even the most hardened of veterans cringe in disgust. Lightning cracked. The rain fell. The doppelganger stared. Marco stood. Frozen. Afraid. He was pinned down by his former self, eyes blinking rapidly as he gazed upwards, the rain streaming down his face. Trapped now, not by himself, but by Jean. He was warm, safe. Protected by the one friend he ever had. Jean lunged, taking a huge bite from the junction of neck, Marco’s blood dripping down his chin in rivulets supplied by the rain.

 

He woke to find Jean leaning over him, a worried look plastered securely on his face.  Jean was perched on his lap, using his arms to secure Marco to the lounge beneath them, as though Marco had been flailing in his sleep.

 

“What the fuck was that all about?”

 

Jean forcefully enquired, turning vicious in his concern. Marco could only meet his gaze, saying nothing, just as confused as Jean was. The time passed slowly, each staring at the other, attempting to find answers. Jean eventually sat back, now sitting fully on Marco’s legs and released his arms from where he had restrained them. Marco shifted back on the lounge a little, moving them both as he sat a little more upright and allowed his hands to rest on Jeans thighs from where they rested against his.

 

“What did I do?”

 

Marco was almost afraid to ask. Jean explained that he had been tossing and turning in his sleep, calling out a little as he thrashed in apparent terror. That’s when his arm had whacked Jean squarely in the face, ripping him out of his own slumber. Jean quickly understood what was happening and moved to hold Marco down so that he could wake him. Jean finished the short recount and looked at Marco with something akin to empathy and tentatively asked,

 

“What did you dream about?”

 

Marco just continued to stare at him absently, his mind elsewhere and too tired to have a comprehensible conversation. Jean recognised the chaotic jumble of emotions that lay behind the confused and slightly anxious expression, and simply pulled the doona over the pair of them, making no more enquiries. He turned and rested his head in the crook of Marco’s neck, feeling his arms wrap around him. Jean ran his fingers through Marco’s messy, uncut hair, whispering sweet nothings into his ear until the tears stopped and he fell into sleep once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I woke up and he was screaming  
> I'd left him dreaming  
> I roll over and shake him tightly  
> And whisper "if they want you  
> Oh they're gonna have to fight me"  
> Oh fight me  
> -Laura Marling 'Night Terror'
> 
> ~Ink


	7. Of Paints and Purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the next instalment! Let me know if you find inconsistencies or OOCness, or even if you have an idea for the story because honestly, I'm making this shit up as I go along...

After that night, neither could be found very far away from the other; they were virtually inseparable. Eren had found Marco a job at a local clothing shop and Jean had continued his studies at university, still refusing to reveal the course he was taking. They fell asleep on the lounge together more often than not, their rooms becoming nothing more than a place to store their clothes.  Jean’s habit of eating out became almost non-existent as Marco took over the kitchen, ensuring that they went shopping at least once a week to restock the cupboards. The low dining table became the regular place to eat their meals, sitting cross-legged opposite each other and swapping stories.

 

A discovery was made upon the fourth month of their roommateship. Marco had been working solidly all week to accommodate for the warzone that was the Christmas sales a week before the event itself. The manager decided, however, that Marco had been working far too hard, given that he was only a casual employee, and allowed him to leave early, promising to pay him for the full days’ work as a kind of bonus. Marco accepted eagerly and left, deciding to pass the grocery shop on the way home; with the extra time he gained, he could make five-hour lamb, a house favourite. He wrestled his way through the crowds in the grocer, resolving to buy the bare minimum so that he could get out as soon as possible.

 

Finally, he escaped the claustrophobic shop, small bag of groceries in his hand and began the short walk home, lost in thought. Marco was astounded at the close relationship that he had forged with Jean. The whole concept of having a best friend was new to him, having ostracised himself back at home. There was a kind of security and comfort in understanding that Jean would be there when he got home, that Jean would always instantly reply to any text message, that Jean would always pretend that he hated eating in, but secretly enjoyed Marco’s cooking more than anything. Marco smiled at the thought of it, his cheeks flaring slightly at the compliments that he had received from Jean in the past.

 

Having been completely absorbed by thoughts of Jean, Marco hadn’t even realised that he had returned home. He found himself standing outside the front door, key in the lock when he realised that he had given Jean no warning that he had been let off early. Marco stopped and thought for a moment; would he be intruding if he walked in unannounced? He was fairly sure that Jean did nothing all day except play his games on the TV when he wasn’t at Uni. Deciding that it wouldn’t really matter either way, and that it was technically his house too, Marco finished unlocking and opening the door, making sure that he made as much noise as possible to announce his presence. He took his shoes off, looked around the room, located Jean and froze. He stared at Jean, Jean stared at him, each surprised at the others appearance.

 

Jean had set up some expensive brand name watercolour paints on the low dining table, his laptop sitting at one end, a rag at the other with a large box of pricey watercolour pencils arranged in front of him. He had a few pencils and a paintbrush tucked behind his ear, his fringe pinned back with some cheap-ass bobby pins. His hands had colourful stains on them from where they had accidentally brushed the wet paint, or been used as a pallet. Even his face had bright blue smudges all over it.

 

The fact that Jean was painting wasn’t the most surprising thing though; it was the subject of his painting.

 

A thick pad of quality watercolour paper sat slightly tilted in the centre of the table, glistening in the artificial light of the apartment. It was covered in deep, earthy tones the contrasted nicely with brighter oranges and skin tones. Viewed from afar, it was an incomplete portrait of none other than Marco himself. He was posed reclining on the double lounge, his face slightly turned to the ‘camera’, watching the TV; he looked utterly comfortable and at peace. A few white patches stood out, waiting to be filled in with the loving touch of a dedicated artist; an artist that was apparently Jean.

 

Deciding that he couldn’t deal with the awkward just yet, Marco simply walked passed Jean into the kitchen and began to put the groceries away, taking his time, allowing him to think of a response. Finally deciding that he was prepared enough, he turned and began to walk back to Jean, who had been staring at him in disbelief the whole time, blushing red from his ears right down to his neck.

 

“Can I see it?”

 

Jean shuffled over a little, nodding his consent and rubbing his neck, a nervous habit. Marco knelt down beside him and shifted the pad so he could see it properly. It looked so much better up close; Marco’s face had been finely rendered to the point of semi-realism, the colourful wash in the background bringing out the over-exaggerated golden brown of his eyes. The lounge had creases in all the right places, as did his clothing; even the freckles on his face were almost perfect.

 

Marco could do nothing but stare, his mouth hanging open a little.

 

“This is incredible, Jean! Where did you learn to paint like this!?”

 

Jean looked sideways at him and mumbled something about being mostly self-taught, still buried in embarrassment at having been caught painting his best friend.

 

“I had no idea you were artistic. Hang on, let me just grab something.”  
  
Marco stood and rushed into his room to collect a small sketchbook from his bedside table. Returning to the dining table he said,

 

“I hadn't thought it was worth mentioning, but I sketch sometimes in this book before I go to sleep. I had one just before you picked me up, but I like to sell them for a little cash on the side…”

 

It was Marco’s turn to look away in embarrassment as Jean gingerly leafed his way through the pages of the almost-full sketch book, his own blush fading as he noticed a trend amongst the pages. Every other picture in the book was a carefully sketched portrait of him, albeit a little cartoonish. Each was signed with Marco’s signature and the date, the earliest being from the second week they had lived together.

 

“So, anyhow, I was thinking that we could have five-hour lamb for dinner, what with me being home early and all. SO… Iiiii’m gonna go get that ready…”

  
  
Marco babbled a little, being slightly embarrassed at opening up to Jean like this; he had thought that it would have driven a wedge between them as Jean had seemed dead against anything creative and therefore never mentioned it. Although, now he understood why. He stood, walked to the kitchen and began to collect the necessary ingredients for the roast, pulling out the chopping board and beginning to prepare the vegetables. Jean sat at the table and flicked through the sketchbook a third time.

 

Finally, he stood and walked up behind Marco as he was chopping the last of the vegetables. Marco was so lost in his thoughts that he was mildly surprised when he felt Jean’s arms wrap around his stomach, resting his head in between his shoulder blades. He put the knife down and wiped his hands with a tea towel before placing his own arms over Jean’s, tilting his head back to lean on his shoulder.

 

And so they stood for twenty minutes, content merely to hold each other.

 

Eventually, Marco decided that his back simply couldn’t hold the position for any longer; he released his grip on Jean’s arms and twisted so that they faced each other and reached his arms around Jean to come to rest around his middle. Jean rose to his toes to compensate for the height difference and pressed their cheeks together, each enjoying the new, more comfortable position.

 

Slowly, slowly, Jean shifted his face so that his nose was pressed against Marco’s cheek and planted a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. Marco caught the obvious hint and turned his head, capturing Jean’s mouth in a slow, chaste kiss, allowing each to learn the touch and rhythm of the other. Jean smiled into Marco’s lips, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead on his. Hearing his heartbeat pounding in his ears, Marco almost missed the quiet statement from his partner,

 

“Now that that’s out of the way, I believe you owe me a fucking date, Freckles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Be thy intents wicked or charitable... thou comest in such a questionable shape."
> 
> -Hamlet, Shakespeare
> 
> ~Ink

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm the only one who has read this, so I apologise for any mistakes or OOCness; I find dialogue hard to write at the best of times. Constructive criticism is welcome, please and thank you.
> 
> I write not very much,  
> this much is true,  
> I wonder if any,  
> will read this thing new?
> 
> ~Ink~


End file.
